


The Game

by parapraxis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parapraxis/pseuds/parapraxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's after midnight, John is drunk, and Sherlock is bored. Let the games begin...</p><p>Eventual Sherlock/John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Game

_Tick. Tick. Tick._ The cogs moving the gears on Sherlock’s watch audibly counted each wasted second that the detective lay motionless on the sofa.

 _Tick. Tick. Tick._ How did normal people do this? Lie still, sit in silence. _Do nothing._ It was absolutely maddening. Sherlock could feel his brain growing stagnant, starting to rot inside his head.

 _Tick. Tick. Tick._ His fingers drummed anxiously over his chest, each steady tick of his watch making him itch with the urge to move, or shout, or do _something_.

 _Tick. Tick. Tick._ Sherlock looked at the watch face. Five ‘til 1:00. Exactly five minutes since the last time he’d checked his watch.  
Swinging his feet off the sofa and sitting up in one fluid movement, Sherlock looked around for something to do. John had taken the gun away from him after his last bit of fun with it. There had been no cases for nearly a week, so he had no clues to study. The telly? No…he hated crap telly. 

Sighing heavily, Sherlock mussed up his already disheveled curls and rose to his full height. Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown, he stepped up on the coffee table and down on the other side, not bothered with walking around the furniture as a normal person might. Moving to the widow and drawing back the curtain with one hand, the detective peered out on the lifeless street below. He knew the Chinese establishment at the end of the block would be open for another hour, but he wasn’t hungry and wasn’t in the mood for cryptic messages inside of cookies.

How could there be absolutely _nothing_ of interest happening in London? Crime was the only thing that didn’t sleep. Surely, somewhere, some sap was getting the life stabbed out of him by some unknown assailant. Maybe the body would be dumped in the Thames and would wash up on shore with high tide. The killer would obviously be a man, middle aged. The two men would have had an argument, probably over money. They might have just come from the pub…

A cab pulled up in front of the building, drawing Sherlock’s attention. He watched John stagger slightly as he got out of the car, reaching into his pocket for a few bills to pay the fare and giving the cabbie a messy wave as he turned towards the door. _Speaking of drunk_... It was John’s regular pub night with Mike Stamford, the lecturer they were both acquainted with at St. Bart’s.

Sitting himself in his armchair, Sherlock picked up his violin and cradled it across his chest like a ukulele. Plucking randomly at the strings to fill the silence in the room as if he’d been sitting there for hours, he honed in on the sound of John trying to quietly come in downstairs. The steps creaked with protest under John’s weight and Sherlock stifled an amused smirk as he heard John trying to shush them.

“Back so soon?” Sherlock asked as John staggered into the common room. 

John gave him a queer look before shrugging out of his jacket. “I’ve been out all night, Sherlock. Or haven’t you bothered to notice…as usual? Have you even moved since I left?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up at John as the other man fell into the chair opposite him. He saw the hard lines in John’s face, the clench of his jaw, the barely concealed scowl. Another failed attempt to get off with a woman. “Word of advice, John, don’t try to pick up women in bars. They’re only after the next best thing.”

“Are _you_ giving _me_ dating advice? Seriously? The man who has never—“ John sighed and dropped his head back. “No, forget it. I don’t care anymore.”

“Never what?” Sherlock queried, though he was certain he knew what John had been about to say.

“Have you ever even kissed anyone?”

“I’ve kissed Mrs. Hudson.” 

John laughed and shook his head, “No…No, Sherlock. I mean…romantically.”

Sherlock stopped plucking at the violin strings, his eyes on John’s. “Romance is a fantasy.”

John sighed loudly again, pinching the bridge of his nose as if staving off a headache.

Sherlock could feel his irritation like a choking black cloud in the room. After a pregnant pause, Sherlock looked towards the empty fireplace. “I have never loved a woman.”

Dumbfounded, John looked up at Sherlock in disbelief. Had he really just volunteered that? John didn’t know what to say, but there was a part of that statement that he couldn’t help but hear louder than the rest of it. “Have you…loved a man?”

Sherlock gave him a reproachful look without answer and set his violin aside.

“Haven’t you ever...wanted to?” John couldn’t imagine a life of celibacy, a life without any type of intimacy or even interest in physical pursuits for leisure. Sex had so many functions and purposes and possibilities…why anyone would choose not to engage in it was beyond him. 

“Emotional attachment interferes with my work. Sex is a distraction.”

“Yes,” John couldn’t argue with that analysis. “But it’s a wonderful distraction, Sherlock…and more legal than drug use.”

Sherlock studied John for a long moment. He had begun to sink slightly in the chair, weighted down by his inebriation. His hands were folded over his stomach now, relaxed—no longer agitated. The mention of sex had calmed him, and faintly aroused him, judging by the slight dilation of his pupils. It fascinated Sherlock how primitive John’s mind could be sometimes, always concerned with unnecessary details like money, food and sex. His head could be turned equally by an attractive woman or a good meal. How simple people were…

“Come on,” John said, taking advantage of Sherlock’s candidness. “Isn’t there anyone you’ve thought about shagging? Ever?”

Sherlock steepled his fingers together, bringing them up just under his chin and breathing out through his nose as he calculated the risks of continuing this particular conversation. 

“Alright,” John pulled himself up from the chair. “I know that look. You’ve checked out of the conversation.”

Sherlock eyed John’s back as he headed towards the stairs, intent on taking himself up to bed. Deciding to settle the issue once and for all, Sherlock spoke only one word. “Yes.”

John stopped in his tracks, hesitating for several seconds before slowly turning back around. “Sorry…was that ’yes’ you’ve thought about shagging someone or ‘yes’ you’ve checked out of the conversation?”

“I’ll tell you what, John.” Sherlock pulled his legs up onto the chair, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You know what I do and how I do it…so you tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“The answer to your question.”

“Which question?”

“The one you haven’t yet asked.”

“How can I know what answer I’m looking for if I don’t even know the question?” 

“Ah, now you’re beginning to think.” Sherlock’s grin widened.

“You’re absolutely maddening, d’you know that?”

Sherlock simply stared back at him. 

John paced to the fireplace, then took several steps in the opposite direction, rubbing his brow as he tried to puzzle out what question and what answer he was looking for. _Okay, the facts; stick with the facts._

Sherlock had told him that he’d never loved a woman.

He hadn’t said whether or not he had loved a man.

Sherlock was always so tight lipped when it came to talking about himself, about revealing anything regarding his person. Yet, in other ways he was very candid with John. So, why did Sherlock Holmes only clam up with certain topics? Hell, why did Sherlock do anything he did…

 _Facts_ Mrs. Hudson; God no. Lestrade, hopefully no. Sally and Anderson, both definite no’s. Molly…maybe Molly. Irene Adler…oh God, that was it. “The Woman; Irene Adler.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched up in response as he looked at John, then he rose to his feet, tucking his dressing gown about him. “Goodnight, John.”

John opened and closed his mouth as Sherlock passed by, heading towards his bedroom. “Wait, no! You have to tell me, Sherlock! Did I get it right or wrong?”

Sherlock paused at the entryway to the kitchen, hands in the pockets of the gown as he turned to regard John for several moments. “Wrong,” Sherlock answered, then left John standing in the middle of the flat staring after him.

TBC


End file.
